


By the Grace of God (Or Something)

by mugsandpugs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Drama, F/F, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pining, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony was just trying to cope and recover from everything that happened but America's fucking boyscout just had to twist the knife with that letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read this chapter [here](http://mugsandpugs.tumblr.com/post/144384060399/by-the-grace-of-god-or-something-ch-1-of-2) on my tumblr.

_Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?_

It was hard to breathe, Tony found. His brain cataloged the possibilities with the clinical, detached air of a bystander- had he broken a rib and punctured his lungs? Was the crumbled enclosure he'd been left in blocking the circulation of oxygen? He hoped he wasn't having another anxiety attack. 

Presently, it came to him that he should probably call for help. He knew death was a possibility- hell, a likelihood- if he remained down here. He contemplated, for a moment, whether that was a bad thing or not. After weighing the pros and cons ( _who else is gonna help Rhodey get better? It's your fault he's..._ ) he found himself wondering who to call. 

Pepper was the first person that came to mind. She could put on a suit, move all these rocks- no, no they were taking a break. And it was exactly _because_ of things like this that they were doing so. He allowed himself the luxury of missing her, aching for her, for exactly fifteen seconds before considering other options. Bruce was in hiding again. Fury... there was no way he was contacting Fury. 

Finally, he spoke aloud. "Call Natasha." It hurt to speak. He didn't really think anything inside him was broken, though it wasn't as if the suit were functioning well enough to tell him. Barnes and Rogers had really done a number on it- no, he wasn't going to think about that. Not now. He felt mildly surprised that the suit was intact enough to connect when he heard a tinny voice from its speakers, echoing loudly where he lay. 

"Stark?" 

"I fucked up, Romanov." 

It didn't take long for them to arrive, her and Vision both- he wondered dimly if he'd carried her, but no- that was the heliocarrier. He groaned at that: the heliocarrier meant paperwork, and that meant that other people _knew._

Vision came first, appearing suddenly beside him and kneeling down gracefully, touching his wrist through the suit. Tony tried to offer a grin when he was assured he'd be retrieved shortly but he was fairly certain his face looked like more of a grimace. 

By the time he and Natasha had created a pathway to reach him, he found himself panting. It _was_ a lack of oxygen; the sudden sunlight and light breeze on his face made him feel woozy. He tried to sit up but was halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. "Stop." 

To her credit, Natasha said nothing when she saw the state he was in. Her face wore a complicated expression- lips flat, eyebrows suspiciously still when she gestured above for a stretcher to be lowered from the heliocarrier. She looked at his damaged arc reactor closely, but did not touch it. "Can you fix this?" she asked him. 

"I'll need help," he said. She nodded once. 

As his stretcher was lifted, he caught a glimpse of her carefully picking up Captain America's shield and hugging it to her chest. 

**###**

It was on his bedside table when he awoke. The shield, that was. Lit by a patch of sunlight pouring in through the window as if it were some holy thing, claw marks and all. Tony groaned and closed his eyes. 

What did it mean, that Rogers had listened to his fallen blithering? He cringed to even think of it. It had seemed so important at that moment, more important even than his pride, that Steve lose _something_ from this fight. It wasn't fair that he walk away whole when Tony was left forever changed from the encounter. 

What a stupid thought that had been. Rogers had tossed the shield aside as if it had meant nothing to him at all- no, worse, like it was a _relief,_ like he'd been waiting for an excuse to drop the burden of _being_ Captain America. To just be Steve Rogers, defender of murderers, criminal and destroyer of... 

Tony needed to derail this train of thought immediately. That, however, proved to be a problem: Tony's mind just didn't _work_ the way he asked it to. It charged on, forcing it's destructive and tank-like way through blocks and walls. It was an unruly and illogical thing, sometimes running circular, repeating the same track over and over. And right now that track was Steve's face above his, perfect features contorted in primitive rage, arms raised for the final strike. Tony could tell already that a part of him would forever exist in that moment. 

"Stark." 

A distraction. Blessed relief. 

Natasha had with her two glasses of water, both with long straws. She handed him one as she sat, cross-legged, at the foot of his bed, sipping her own and looking for all the world casual and nonchalant, as if they were meeting perhaps at a park bench or in a grocery store aisle. Nothing in her face indicated that she'd just exhumed his body from a collapsed fortress in the middle of nowhere. She was good at her job, he had to give her that. 

"You look like hell," she told him conversationally. 

Tony didn't need a mirror to confirm that yes, he did in fact look as if he'd just been beaten within an inch of his life by two geriatric super-soldiers. His aching face and ribs were confirmation enough. 

He glanced under the sheet and noted that his bruised and battered body had been stripped to his underwear. "Well, you got a nice show out of it," he said, referring to how she'd helped him install the improved arc reactor, risky as it was. He wondered if she knew the significance of it, that he'd trusted her to hold his heart in her hands and not crush it. 

Natasha didn't snort, but the tip of her nose and the corner of her mouth twitched minutely, as if she would very much like to. "Absolutely," she said, only a trace of wry sarcasm audible in her voice. "You know it was my dream come true to strip your bloody, sweaty self." 

Tony grinned, which made the cut in his lip sting. "Damn straight." 

When she looked pointedly at the glass in his hands, he gave in and took a long drink. Cold in his empty belly. He shivered. 

"Are you going to stay?" he asked her when she shifted on his bed so that her back was pressed to the wall. He followed her gaze to the shield, and then quickly looked away again. Her bedroom in Stark towers remained untouched the long months she was away; he didn't even have surveillance cameras installed there. 

"Not long," she replied honestly. "I need to leave tonight." 

Tony tried not to let the disappointment show on his face; he knew better than to ask where she was going. "Right, well. I just. I guess I wanted to tell you. I mean, considering the circumstances-" 

She smiled then, a real smile- something he'd only seen on her once or twice before. It showed the tiny gap between her front teeth, made her nose spread a little. He was struck, not for the first time, of how pretty she was, in a distant sort of way. A framed piece in a museum titled _Affetto Red. _"You're welcome, Stark."__

**###**

Anthony Edward Stark was very, very good at a select range of things. And the rest, well, that was what money, computers, and robots were for. It didn't matter that he oftentimes forgot the limits of the human body he was stuck in: he had reminders to eat, to sit down before he collapsed. There was always someone to prevent him from killing himself on accident and, on several occasions, to stop him from doing it deliberately as well. It was a flawed and less-than-healthy system, but it'd worked so far, had it not?

What Tony was really good at was disappearing into his head so deeply that he forgot himself, and everything else, entirely. He could hypo-focus for hours, days at a time, on a project. An idea. Numbers, calculations, sheet metal, the sickly-sweet smell of engine oil. He was excellent at forgetting how much he hated himself. 

Rhodey proved to be an ideal distraction, and though guilt tugged somewhere at the back of Tony's mind for using his friend's misfortune- misfortune that was unquestionably his, Tony's, fault- to cope, well. Somebody had to do this, right? He was productive. He was useful. He was _necessary._ He had to keep telling himself that. 

Long hours spent with a cloth over his eyes, turning ideas over in his head ( _If I fused the device to his spine- no that wouldn't work, I'd have to sever the cord, too risky. But if I..._ ) kept leading him back to one James Buchanan Barnes. Much as he hated to think of the man, that _arm_ of his... he would never admit, even to himself, that it was an inspiration. An absolute masterpiece of bio-engineering. 

To think of Bucky by name was unacceptable. To picture his face was to picture his mother's face as he murdered her. It was to think of Steve's face, contorted in rage. It was to be reminded of that flash of pity- no. No. He would not think on that. The arm, think of the _arm._

Sitting up, Tony whipped the cloth from his eyes and began to rapidly design Support System 1.0 for Rhodey's legs. 

**###**

He didn't hear the announcement that he had a guest.

Well, he _heard_ it in that his brain was dimly aware that sound-waves in the form of spoken, automatic words were hitting his ears. But the words themselves didn't breach his thoughts- he was too focused on Support System 4.0. It was almost perfect... 

"Tony." 

That one word, from that particular mouth, was enough to force him to drop his wrench. Spinning around and lifting the visor of the welding helmet, he was flooded with emotion upon seeing Pepper's face. 

"Oh," he said. There were no words to describe this. "Oh, I-" 

His mouth didn't know what to say, but his arms knew to reach for her. His heart knew it belonged to her, and it made this manifest by pounding at nearly twice it's recommended pace. "Pepper!" 

She smiled and laughed, looking pointedly at his grease-slicked hands. Oh, of course, of course, that pantsuit she wore was not to be touched with oil. Stupid Tony. Grinning like a golden retriever with its head sticking from a car window, he nearly tripped over his feet to hurry to the sink, scrubbing almost violently at his hands and nails. "What brings you here?" 

"I was in the neighborhood." She waited patiently for him to dry his hands, to toss his helmet and apron aside before grabbing her up in a bone-creaking hug. "A little birdie told me you've been busy." 

A little birdie? Tony strongly suspected it may be a little _spider._ It didn't matter. He had Pepper in his arms and he somehow accidentally had some of her hair in his mouth and everything was _Pepper, Pepper, Pepper._ "I missed you so much." 

She hugged back for a long minute before gently patting his arm. "Tony, I need to breathe-" 

His eyes were moist and the smile stretching his face made his cheeks ache when he released her and took a step back. His mouth wanted to call her horrible things like _darling, dearest, dear._ He worked hard to keep it shut. He used to make fun of people who said things like that but really- she _was_ darling, dearest, dear. 

She looked at the Support System 4.0, curiosity in her clever eyes as she tried to figure out how it worked. "What's this for?" 

"Oh that," Tony said. "That is... for Rhodey." 

Pepper's smile faltered a bit. "Right," she said in more somber tones. "I heard about the... accident." 

Guilt dripped down the back of his throat, flooding his stomach like acid. Even after releasing Sam and the others from the refined prison (some had forgiven him. Wanda, for one, had come home to Stark Towers. The others...) it continued to eat him alive. "Yeah," he said. Some might not hear the small rasp in his voice but Pepper- 

"Stop it, Tony," she told him immediately. "Stop tearing yourself apart over this." Her arms folded over her chest, her chin jutted just a bit. Stubborn as ever. "You didn't mean for it to happen." 

Was Pepper ever wrong? Perhaps he'd been hoping for her permission to forgive himself over this. It worked, to an extent. The smallest of weights was lifted from his shoulders, just like that. Pepper didn't hate him. Things could maybe someday be Alright. 

She was looking around the workroom now and he saw her eyes alight on the flat, covered thing on a back table. He tried to hide his grimace. Natasha had refused to take the shield with her, and so he'd stuck it back there out of sight. He'd gotten into the habit of not even looking into that corner these past two months, as if it didn't exist. It worked, except for in his sleep. Damn thing was a recurring visitor in his dreams. 

"Come upstairs with me," he requested. "We can order takeout. I have wine... can you stay?" He feared his eyes might give him away. He knew they looked desperate, and so he turned, already walking from the room. 

"I can stay for a while," she answered, following him. When she took his hand, Tony felt his shoulders slump with relief. He laced his fingers with hers, gave them a squeeze. 

Over ceviche and a lovely little Penalolen sauvignon she talked about her work, the places she'd visited. Tony hung onto her every word, starving to know more. Every question she asked him he found himself deflecting, turning back around on her. It was music just to hear her voice. Finally, he could bear it no longer. 

"Pepper," he said softly, and held his arms out. She regarded him for a moment, eyes soft, before finally standing and coming around the table, sliding into his lap. She rested her chin on his shoulder and sighed and finally, for a moment, Tony felt whole. 

He turned his face into her neck, inhaling, and touched his lips to her jaw, sliding his mouth behind her ear. She smelled like a forest after rain. Her hand touched his back, fingers lightly tangling in his shirt. His heartbeat picked up again. 

"Pepper, I love you," he said. The words just left his mouth without consulting his brain. He couldn't _not_ say them any more than he could avoid breathing. "I love you so much. I-" 

She stopped him by kissing his forehead. "Tony. I love you, too." 

His heart sank a little. That was a tone of voice that precluded a, _but..._

He sat back a little, let his arms slide loosely down her waist. It was an unspoken reminder: _you can get up if you want._ He closed his eyes and waited for the worst. 

The 'worst', it turned out, were three soft fingertips touched to his lips. He opened his eyes to read her expression, then sighed. 

"I guess we're still on a break, then," he clarified, and she nodded. 

"I don't think you're ready for a relationship right now," she said. The words, true as they were, fell like leaden raindrops inside him. "I think you have a lot to work through that I can't help you with." 

Tony didn't want to work through anything. Tony wanted Pepper back; then he could just ignore those things. Push them back and back and back until they no longer existed. A million covered tables piled in the corners of the workroom that was his brain. 

In the end, Pepper didn't stay very long. She kissed him once more, her lips just barely brushing the corner of his mouth as she squeezed his shoulder. 

"You're my dear friend," she told him seriously, meeting his eyes. "And I need you to be okay. If you need anything at all, please call me." 

He'd nodded, croaked out a, "Of course. Always." 

Two hours later found him black-out drunk on the workroom floor. He didn't remember grabbing the shield from under its tarp, but there it was, spread over his chest like an upside-down turtle shell. The shattered remains of a mostly empty bottle of jack were dripping sluggishly down the opposite wall. Had he thrown it? He thought he probably had. 

Tony couldn't remember exactly when he'd started crying, but the tears made soft _plink_ sounds falling on the shield. He laughed then- this was all unbearably stupid. He kept seeing _his_ back turned on him as he left him behind. Star spangled bastard. 

"Are you ever coming back?" he asked. 

**###**

Three months and two weeks after the Event, a package was delivered to Stark towers. Tony would have recognized that handwriting anywhere: it was perfect, scripted; it looked as if it'd been written with the quill of a founding father. Stupid, really- Rogers was a product of the forties; why he wrote like that was anyone's guess. 

The penmanship wasn't nearly as stupid as what the letter did to Tony's heart. It raced as he read it, then sank. His hands shook and halfway through he crumpled the paper, only to smooth it out and continue reading a minute later. The rollercoaster of emotion- fury, gratitude, hatred, affection. It was quite overwhelming. 

He puzzled over the flip-phone for a while, thinking on Steve's words. Of course it was a flip-phone; Rogers knew how easily Tony could track a smartphone. He might as well have stated outright in the letter (which had been deliberately redirected multiple times, if the stamps were any indication): he did not want Tony to find him. 

He gripped the phone hard in his fist, so hard the plastic creaked, and he had to hurriedly drop it in fear of breaking it. It was clear what this was: Boyscout had felt _guilt_ on leaving Tony behind like that. That pitying glance- Tony felt sick with rage at the memory, his scorched pride flaming up again. 

He knew exactly why Rogers was sending him this now, and despite what he may tell himself, it wasn’t to help Tony out. It was to assuage his own damn guilt so that he could push Tony out of his mind entirely. 

Growling angrily to himself, Tony strode purposefully back to his workroom. He wasn’t letting Rogers off the hook that easily. 

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can also be read on my tumbler [here.](http://mugsandpugs.tumblr.com/post/144592884264/by-the-grace-of-god-or-something-chapter-2)

Tony had been strongly advised against using the suit to fly directly into Wakanda. Words like _terrorism_ and _unlawful entry_ were said with some vehemence and stern-looking eyebrows. Direct permission had to be acquired the legal way: paperwork, money, dotted i's and crossed t's.

Tony had gritted his teeth and done as he was told, much as it rubbed him the wrong way. So much for his sneak arrival plan. With his luck, by the time he landed Steve would be long gone. Still, he'd caused enough trouble from breaking the rules; he didn't want to add "caused a dispute with an allied country" to his list of wrongdoings. 

It was balmy outside when the private jet was directed onto a short runway outside what looked like some sort of office suite; then the pilot and a member of the crew stepped outside. Probably to sign more paperwork. Tony fidgeted uneasily in his seat; he hadn't even been allowed to _bring_ his suit, and he felt naked without it. Rogers and Barnes had proved to him once and for all what he was- or rather, what he _wasn't-_ without it. 

The side door of the jet opened, and a woman stepped inside. She was tall and elegant in her black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Tony glanced at the gold tie pin and matching cufflinks and smiled: they were small, stylized panthers. 

"Mr. Stark," she said. Her face was blank and humorless. "I need to search you before you're permitted to meet with T'Challa." 

Tony stood immediately and handed his bag over. She wasn't especially brawny but he had no doubt she'd have him eating dirt in no time flat should she want to. She began rifling through his hastily assembled underwear and t-shirts, examining his pile of tech with a critical eye. She even checked the lining for hidden pockets before passing the bag back to him. 

"Now stand with your arms out," she said, clearly intending to frisk him. 

Tony did so, feeling guilty despite knowing he had nothing on him- her face just seemed to have that kind of effect- when a warm, familiar voice and consecutive footsteps halted them. 

"Okoye, this is not how we treat friends. Come, I've waited long enough." 

"Your majesty." Okoye immediately turned and lowered her head in a respectful bow as T'Challa stepped into the jet, a fond smile on his face. 

Tony imitated her gesture. His pride had taken some blows the last time they'd interacted, and he found it hard to look the king in the eyes. 

He jumped a little in surprise when a hand clasped his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "Tony." 

Meeting T'Challa's eyes, Tony struggled to return the smile. "Good evening, your majesty," he said. "Thank you for, uh. Inviting me to stay with you, and for meeting me here." 

"Absolutely," T'Challa said with an affirmative nod of his head. "We are a hospitable country to guests and friends. It has been a long trip for you; let me show you to your rooms." 

Tony followed T'Challa out of the jet. Okoye was walking close behind him on silent feet. 

It was near-dusk out; the sun was only a tiny orange sliver on the horizon and the first stars were making their appearance. The air was balmy and Tony found himself already beginning to sweat. 

He made polite small-talk with T'Challa; _How is business for you?_ and, _Is your health faring well?_ He felt touched when the king asked after Rhodey by name and described how he'd made sure to perfect the leg support system he'd invented before even thinking about coming here. 

A musical chime sounded from somewhere, and T'Challa pulled a phone from his pocket. He spoke in Wakandan to whoever was on the other line -Tony made a mental note to learn the language as soon as possible- and then shot Tony an apologetic smile. "I have an urgent meeting," he said after he'd hung up, rolling his eyes. "Can't get five minutes to myself. You'll excuse me?" 

Tony assured him that he understood, and then T'Challa was jogging across the cobblestone courtyard to another impossibly tall, arched building. Tony had to admit there was something amusing about seeing a king he'd personally witnessed in full battle form _jogging._

An arm brushed his side and he jumped again; he hadn't realized Okoye had moved. It seemed unfair to be both that tall _and_ that stealthy. "This way," she said brusquely. Tony followed, equal parts intimidated and admiring. 

The elevator they stepped into took them to a set of doors. She swiped a plastic card from her pocket over the scanner on one of them; the scanner beeped and, a second later, a door swung open to reveal something of an apartment. It was decorated with potted plants and abstract paintings, as well as bowls of fruit on every available surface. 

"You'll find yourself well accommodated here," she said. "The kitchen is stocked," she gestured towards one door. "And this line connects directly with some of our staff, should you need anything." She pointed to a clunky plastic landline phone. 

She stared at him for a long second and Tony realized he was meant to reply. "O-okay," he said, and she dropped the card she'd used to enter the building next to a vase of pinkish flowers before turning and letting herself out. Tony blinked after her for a moment, then grinned. He wondered if this was the person Nat had talked about, the one who'd told her, _"Move or be moved._ At the time he could hardly imagine anyone talking to _Natasha Romanov_ like that. Now he could. 

Immediately he pulled his laptop from his bag and cursed when he couldn't guess the WiFi password. He should have asked... the landline to the staff gave off a busy tone and he snorted in disgust. _Landlines._

He gave a cursory glance into the kitchen- food, boring; coffee, less boring- and walked down the long wooden hallway, glancing into the other rooms he was given. Bathroom, lounge complete with flat-screen television, bedroom. The last door he tried, he discovered, had a lock on it that he could unlatch from his side. He did so promptly. 

Pulling the door open, he was slightly puzzled to see yet another door. Trying its handle, he found that it was locked- this time, from the other side. Frowning, he jiggled the handle, then gave it a hearty shove with his shoulder. Maybe it was just stuck. He pushed and strained for a few seconds before it suddenly opened, the momentum sending Tony stumbling forward into something firm, yet soft. And _warm._

_"Tony?!"_

### 

Of all the ways Tony had imagined his first meeting with Steve Rogers in his five months of absence to go, barreling face-first into his star-spangled abs of steal or whatever the fangirls on the internet forums called them these days had not been high on the list. Also, he'd sort of been expecting Steve to have more clothes on. 

"Um," Tony wriggled his shoulders from where Steve had clenched them both on reflex within his iron grasp. He patted at one of the arms, ineffectively. "Cap? Oxygen?" 

Not that he'd usually be complaining to have his face muffled in such finely carved collarbones, but. 

Steve immediately released Tony, who took a quick two steps back. The supersoldier was looking just as shocked as Tony felt: T'Challa had said nothing of Tony and Steve sharing _adjoining rooms._ He hadn't really said anything about Steve's presence- or lack thereof- at all. To be fair, Tony hadn't really asked. 

He stood up straight and cleared his throat, straightening out his clothes. "Rogers." 

"Stark." 

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, was standing in his and Tony's doorway dressed in what looked to be the equivalent of a dishtowel knotted above his nethers. The towel didn't really do much. 

_I'm way too bisexual for this,_ Tony thought. He couldn't stop staring. It was almost funny and a sound escaped him. It may have been a laugh. Steve cleared his throat and, caught, Tony looked quickly up to meet his eyes. 

"... Hi," Tony said. 

"Hello," Steve replied cautiously. He cocked his head a bit. "I guess the question to ask would be, why are you here?" 

Oh. Oh! Right, right, the plan. The confrontation. The demanding of an explanation. The crumpling up of the letter, throwing it back in Steve's face. Letting him know once and for all that he and Tony were not, nor would they ever again be, friends. Tony opened his mouth, then shut it again. 

"Could you maybe sort of put some clothes on please, because I'm having a hard time here." 

Steve raised a perfect blonde eyebrow. "I can see that." 

### 

Steve, dressed now in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, poured himself a cup of tea from the electric kettle and offered one to Tony. Tony held his hand up in denial, but Steve poured one anyway and slid it to him before settling into the breakfast nook across from him. 

His original statements, so carefully planned and rehearsed, had more or less been destroyed by that surprise beginning, and now Tony felt cross and unprepared. "Sorry, did I interrupt your bedtime ritual?" Tony asked, taking a sip of the tea offered him. "I forgot you grandpa-types like to be out with the sun." 

"Actually," Steve corrected, "I was doing some yoga." 

The thought of Steve Rogers performing yoga stretches in that compromising state of apparel had Tony choking on his drink. He spluttered, tea running from his nose, and Steve pounded him gently on the back until he cleared his lungs. 

"Since when do you do yoga?" Tony asked, still coughing a bit as he rubbed his streaming eyes. Was that- oh, hell no. A genuine glint of amusement in Steve's eyes. The bastard _knew._

"Well," Steve shrugged. "It's not as if I have much else to do. T'Challa is pretty firm on having no foreigners getting involved in the affairs here. I'm firmly restricted to a vacationing guest's lifestyle until I leave." 

"And why haven't you left yet?" Tony asked, mopping up the spilled tea with a paper towel. "It's not really Steve Rogers' style to just sit around doing nothing." 

The silence went on a second longer than was custom, and Tony glanced up to see a shadow pass across Steve's face, a light furrow between his eyebrows. Oh. Only one thing brought on _that_ particular expression. 

"Barnes," Tony clarified, nodding firmly to himself. It made sense. "What, is he imprisoned? Being tested on? Is he-" 

Steve's shoulders went tense in a millisecond, and he was turning on Tony, expression sharp and jaw tight. "Don't," he said curtly. "He's none of your concern." The anger in his eyes poorly concealed his worry. 

"Hey!" Tony put his palms up. "You're right. He's not why I'm here anyway. You are." 

Steve sat back a bit, losing an ounce of intensity, but the wariness remained. "So why are you here?" he asked. He glanced down at Tony's chest, where the light of the repaired arc reactor glowed dimly through his shirt. 

This time, it was Tony who moved defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing a stony gaze on the former captain's face. "I'm here because I don't think we're done yet. You think you can just fuck off to Wakanda and leave it like that? Not without some answers, you can't." 

His voice had cracked imperceptibly on the curse, making it lose its punch. It'd all come out much weaker than he had intended. Pathetic. This wasn't going at all as planned. He may as well be back in that bunker getting the shit beat out of him by this man; he'd already lost again and they hadn't even begun. It had been stupid to come here. 

This was clearly not lost on the Captain, whose gaze softened considerably. "Tony," he said, and oh no, there it was again. That _pity._ It burned like acid in Tony's veins. 

"Don't!" he snarled, lip curling and fists clenching. It'd been the exact expression he'd worn back then, when he'd seen the naked fear in Tony's face. The certainty: _Steve is going to kill me. My_ friend _is going to kill me._ "Don't you dare, Cap." 

Steve didn't ask what Tony was forbidding him from. Instead, he made a jerky movement, as if reaching for Tony's hand. Tony snatched it away immediately, eyes burning holes into the man's chiselled face. 

"You can't just _stop_ being Cap," Tony said. "You just threw it away. Like it didn't even matter to you, like it was nothing at all." 

"You're talking about the shield?" Steve asked, voice soft. He left the other half of his question unspoken: _are you sure we're not talking about you?_

It was galling, infuriating to be seen through so easily. Once upon a time, Tony had been difficult to distinguish from the persona he portrayed, but hit after hit had worn him down to this. 

He was so, so tired all of a sudden. 

"You need to come back," Tony said, playing his last card. "You need to _be_ Captain America. SHIELD needs you. New York needs you. You can't just leave." 

Steve continued looking at him with that horrible, knowing face. “I thought I told you in my letter that if you needed me, I’d be there for you.” 

\- but not tired enough not to take umbrage with that. 

“You know what?” Tony stood up abruptly, abandoning what remained of his cup of tea on the table. “It was a mistake to try and talk to you. You’re going to do whatever you want no matter what I say, so I’ll just leave.” His words were clipped as he moved from Steve’s set of rooms back to the door connecting them with his own. 

“Tony,” Steve called, half-standing from the table to follow, but Tony shot a withering glance over his shoulder that had him halting in place with a nervous puppy look on his face. 

“Don’t, Cap,” Tony said firmly, and locked the door behind him. “Don’t bother.”


	3. Chapter 3

The landline was no longer busy when Tony returned to his rooms, locking the adjoining door firmly between himself and Steve. Not that a lock would work against the supersoldier, but Tony knew Steve. Beat a friend an inch from death to save another friend, sure, but invade privacy? Not likely.

Once he'd obtained the WiFi password from T'Challa's staff, Tony plugged his phone and laptop in to charge and began messaging the pilot of the private jet. No response. He waited a few minutes, freshening up in the bathroom and, begrudgingly, eating a peach from one of the bowls- he had to admit, it was delicious. 

There was no happy little _bring!_ noise that indicated a response from the pilot and Tony swore softly in frustration. Pacing agitatedly, he dialed the number he'd been told was only for emergencies and held the phone to his ear. 

_"Hey you've reached Tyler's phone. Please leave a m-"_ He slammed the phone down on the table, making the remaining fruits in the bowl jump. God _damn_ it. If he'd had his suit he'd be miles in the sky by now; if he had half his tech he'd be almost as far. This was ridiculous. 

Snatching up the keycard he'd been given he left the room and, retracing his path up the hallway and to the elevator, he let himself out. It was darker now, almost black; he smelled something like barbeque in the air. Everything was quite still. 

The jet. Wasn't. There. 

Tony had the phone back to his ear in a second. He'd order a new one to come for him right away. He'd have Tyler fired in a heartbeat while he was at it. He'd- 

"Tony!" 

Turning, he saw T'Challa amidst a group of serious-looking business men and women fresh from their meeting; some in formal cultural dress, others in western-style suits. On his arm was yet another tall woman, this one with long white hair in cornrows. Tony felt a bit underdressed. "Everyone," he introduced his council. "This is the Tony Stark I've told you all about." 

Tony nodded and tried to smile his acknowledgement at their greetings, before beginning to speak. "Your highness," Tony said, imitating the respectful nod Okoye had done earlier. "There's been a mistake. I need to get going." 

"Oh," T'Challa frowned. "So soon? I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, the weather forecasts a terrible storm tonight." 

Tony looked up; there wasn't a single cloud blotting out the full, silver moon. The air was still and the multitudes of stars were bright enough to read a novel by. "You sure?" he asked, a bit dubiously. 

The woman on T'Challah's arms yawned and stretched, her long back popping luxuriously. In the distance, there was a flash of light, and Tony craned his neck to see. Was that lightening? 

"T'Challa, I need to go home and rest," she said in a warm, accented voice. "I have a thunderous headache." 

This made a few of the councilmembers grin, though T'Challa's face remained quite neutral. Tony suspected they were in on some joke he was not privy to. The king gave a benign shrug. "Tony, I'll see you in the morning, yeah?" he asked. "You and Mr. Rogers are invited to have breakfast with me. I suggest you get inside before-" 

A thunderclap drowned out Tony's angry response, then a fat, warm raindrop plopped onto his cheek. Another on the bridge of his nose. He looked up. When had the clouds covered the sky? The Wakandan councilmen produced umbrellas, still grinning. The speed of the rain picked up, and there was a more distinct flash of lightening closer by. 

The councilmen began to scurry away; Okoye, emerging from the shadows, raised an umbrella for T'Challa and the white-haired woman. "Goodnight, friend," the king waved as he was escorted away. 

Frustrated beyond belief, Tony returned to his rooms. His shoes squished loudly on the tile floor as he stood in the elevator, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to him. He let himself into his rooms and quickly got into the shower- the musky smell of the shampoo that had been provided for him, he had to admit, was very nice. 

The rain was pouring down by the bucketful by the time he emerged in a cloud of steam, pulling on a clean blue bathrobe and some boxers. There was no flying any sort of jet in this weather- it'd have been quite a challenge for the suit as well. He sighed and settled into a cushy armchair with his laptop. Not much he could do about it tonight. Tomorrow, he'd simply explain to T'Challa that breakfast wasn't really his Thing, thank him for the opportunity, find Tyler, and- 

There was a soft knock on the door. Not the door entering his rooms from the main hallway, but the adjoining door. Tony tensed, then ground his teeth. "Go away, Cap." 

There was a moment of silence, then: "Please, Tony?" 

Tony sat very still for several seconds, scowling at the door but feeling rather numb. He was quite tired, he found. Standing, he approached the door slowly and pressed his ear to it, listening. He didn't hear anything. 

Cautiously, he unlocked it, then pulled it open. And there was Steve, looking like America's Golden Retriever or whatever in his baggy sweatpants. Tony waited for the fury to hit: it was dull, barely a spark. "You need something, Rogers?" he asked. 

Steve shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Tony got a glimpse of the man he once was: small and out of his league- a little dog in a big dog's body. Finally, he spoke. "I need my friend back." 

And God help him, Steve's voice was now the one catching. His blue eyes suddenly seemed larger; dinner-plate sized. It was revoltingly pathetic. And Tony was only human. He actually _felt_ the crack forming in his chest. 

"What do you want," he sighed, unable to keep looking at the man's face, so he looked over his brawny shoulder instead. "Our initials tattooed together in little hearts on our asses?" 

Steve _grinned,_ a happy kid at Christmas. "I'm in if you're in." 

Tony snorted. He wondered if they should hug or something. Steve was shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, as if he'd like to move but was unsure if he had permission to do so. Raising a fist, Tony tapped it lightly to the center of Steve's chest. "Hey," he said, and then couldn't think of anything to follow that up with. Just, _hey._

Cautiously, Steve put a hand on the back of Tony's neck, almost cradling his skull. It was an odd gesture that puzzled Tony. Maybe it was a forties thing, but it forced him to look at his face again. Had he been that pretty when he was small? Probably, in like an elfin way or something. He cleared his throat. "Crazy weather we've got here, huh?" he asked, taking a step back into his hallway. Steve followed. 

"Tony, I-" the grin had faded, and now the worry had set in. Tony knew with a certainty what was about to follow: apologies, explanations. He wasn't in the mood. Bringing it up would probably just make him angry again, and he was too tired to be angry. 

"How long are you staying here?" he asked, before Steve could speak. "You could come home with me tomorrow if you wanted. I, um. Wanda misses you." 

Steve's smile then was a horribly soft thing and again Tony felt prickled with the irritation that Steve _knew._ Knew what, Tony couldn't say, only that Steve was under the impression that he had Tony all figured out. "I can't, Tony," he said apologetically. "I. Need to stay here." 

Barnes, again. Tony wanted to bring it up, to snarl and snap at Steve. He thought it likely the winter soldier was locked somewhere, maybe being treated with therapy. Maybe Steve was involved, maybe not. But. "God, Cap. You're really set on staying here, then." Stubborn fuck. 

Steve took another step. The hallway was narrow, and Tony found his back touching the wall with Steve's hands bracketing him. He looked a bit nervous, and Tony sighed. 

"You gonna kiss me or not?" he asked, and was gratified to see a spark of surprise in his face before Tony stood on tiptoe, claiming the kiss for himself. 

Steve's mouth was soft, as Tony had known it would be, and he smiled a bit as he leaned into the taller man. Steve seemed not to know what to do with his hands; they remained on the wall for only a second before they were fluttering nervously at Tony's shoulders, then his waist. 

Tony didn't know what he'd expected, though he knew Captain Rogers didn't go around kissing a whole lot of people. Grinning a bit, he took Steve's wrists and used them to guide his arms around himself, then sighed, lightly tugging on Steve's lower lip with his teeth. Might as well get something from this trip. Kissing was easier than talking. 

It seemed Steve disagreed with that last thought, however, because a moment later he was pulling back, resting his forehead against Tony's. 

"I don't know what's come over me," he said. "I apologize." 

He made to move away, but Tony tightened his grip on the big man's wrists. "In case you missed the memo, Cap," he pointed out. "I'm more okay with kissing you than I am in anything else that's happened between us in the last six months." 

"Isn't that the problem?" Steve pointed out. He was still glancing at, and then away from, Tony's lips. "We're not really in a good place to be kissing. We have a lot to work through." 

"Oh for-" Tony used a considerable amount of effort to avoid rolling his eyes. "God, Cap, do I have to spell it out for you? I like you best when your mouth is busy. It's much easier to like you then." 

That was blunt, and maybe sort of mean. He briefly registered a hint of hurt in Steve's eyes before he reversed their positions, backing Steve into the wall and attacking his mouth, kissing him with a ferocity all teeth and growls that had Steve shivering against him. He dragged Steve's lower lip back this time, hard enough that it'd surely swell - _Good,_ he thought savagely. _Maybe he'll have something to remember me by._ \- and the sound Steve made was more than gratifying. Outside, he heard the distant thrall of thunder. 

Steve let this continue for a moment before his hands were on Tony's shoulders, pushing him away. "Stop." He said it with finality: He was done with this. 

_Well,_ Tony thought regretfully. _It was nice while it lasted._ "Okay, fine." He took a step back, raising his hands as if to say, _no weapon here._ "Jesus, Cap, what _do_ you want from me then? You don't want to kiss me. You're an asshole when I try to talk to you. I guess I should have just taken the hint and kept out of your life." He felt something horrifically like _tears_ sting at the corners of his eyes, and that just made him angrier. "Look, just go back to your room. I'll be gone tomorrow." 

Steve just looked at him blankly for a moment, and then gave a little, unhappy laugh. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, as if he were developing the beginnings of a headache. "You are the most difficult person I've ever met," he said in bitter frustration. "I like you, Tony. I like you so much. I want you in my life. But you're no easier to talk to, you know. It's like you're constantly on the defensive, ready to rip people apart if they do one little thing you don't like." 

Tony was gritting his teeth hard against the words threatening to spill from his lips- hurtful words, words to strike Steve again and again until he never thought another kind thing for Tony ever again. His hands shook against his sides. 

"Please leave," he said when he could finally trust himself to speak, and his voice was tight, strained. "I need to be alone." 

"Tony-" Steve said, and he quickly turned away. He couldn't bear those damn puppy eyes again. He felt that _something_ strain inside of him, horrifically close to breaking. He didn't want to know what would happen if it did. "If I go, will I ever see you again?" 

The answer was no, and it was clear in every line of Tony's posture, every breath he took. 

Steve let out a slow exhale of breath, and took a cautious step towards Tony, then another. Hugging him from behind he rested his chin on Tony's shoulder. Tony stiffened, but did not move away. "I hate this," Steve said quietly. "Tell me what I need to do to not lose you." 

The trouble was, there was no answer to his question. The problem was inside Tony, a warring tightness and anger, an anxiety and fear that he could not name. It felt something like panic, and a lot like sadness. 

Tony leaned back, just a little, in Steve's arms- the closest to a returned hug he could offer just then. He turned his head, pressed his lips to the arm closest to his mouth. He felt Steve's eyelashes against the side of his neck. Tickly. 

_I could love you,_ he thought. What a frightening concept. 

"You'll see me again someday," he told Steve finally. "If you still want to." 

"Promise?" Steve asked. He didn't move away until Tony nodded, placing the lightest of kisses against Tony's temple. 

When Tony turned around, Steve was gone. The door between their rooms was closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know what the hell this is. I guess leave a comment if you want to see this continued. You can also read this chapter on my tumblr [here.](http://mugsandpugs.tumblr.com/post/144738842144/by-the-grace-of-god-or-something-ch-3-of-3)


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